


self portrait (as I see you, as you are)

by finedae



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Body Paint, Intricate Rituals, Light Angst, M/M, Yearning, artist!junmyeon, muse!jongdae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finedae/pseuds/finedae
Summary: They’d been having a few late night wine confessionals when Junmyeon had whispered in his neck, almost a plea,“I want to paint you.”Whether he had said it on a whim or had wanted to for a long time, Jongdae made up his mind and bought painting supplies. If it was the last thing he could do for him, he would.
Relationships: Kim Jongdae | Chen/Kim Junmyeon | Suho
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	self portrait (as I see you, as you are)

**Author's Note:**

> yea it’s me back again with some eternal longing. 
> 
> inspired entirely by self portrait and uhh my tl.
> 
> my first suchen! fuck, my first junmyeon fic! aaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> this possessed me i did not write it

“Are _you_ supposed to be shirtless?” Jongdae jokes, trying to not shift on the plastic sheet over the bed. At least Junmyeon was considerate enough to prop a pillow for him.  
  
Junmyeon’s not exactly shirtless, his shirt is still hanging off his frame, chest visible. It’s almost sinful how good he looks, without having worked out this morning. Jongdae knows exactly the amount of work needed to maintain those GQ cover abs and prefers his own long term commitment relationship with noodles to even try. Still, it doesn't mean he can’t enjoy the view.

Jongdae himself is lying on his back on the plastic wrap, with only his sweatpants on. Junmyeon’s room has never been this bare before, everything in its place but also stripped off everything that made it his, packed neatly into a suitcase. Junmyeon doesn’t reply, scrutinizing where he’s lying down and the paint supplies beside him. He apparently makes up his mind, and climbs on the bed, careful to not upset the supplies. Finally, he settles on Jongdae’s thighs, legs on either side.

“At least buy me dinner first, hyung~” Jongdae teases, the weight of Junmyeon on his lap a familiar one.

“I have,” Junmyeon points out, putting the palette by his side for easier access, taking out the brushes, and Jongdae concedes. No more free dinners, Jongdae adds on a mental list he’s compiling. It's a long list. “Okay, so I’ll start with your arms then I’ll move to the torso. That way, it’ll dry by the time we’re there and you can use your phone afterwards.” Junmyeon explains a vision he clearly has mapped out, pouring a helpful amount of violet, blue, green, and red. Jongdae can’t tell what it’s going to be, but he trusts him.

“Sounds good.” Jongdae smiles, reassuring him. They’d been having a few late night wine confessionals when Junmyeon had whispered in his neck, almost a plea, _“I want to paint you.”_ Whether he had said it on a whim or had wanted to for a long time, Jongdae made up his mind and bought painting supplies. If it was the last thing he could do for him, he would.

When they had first met each other, Jongdae was a fresh faced baby discharged from active duty, entering university as a freshman musical theory major and Junmyeon had lost a year battling renunciation of his Korean nationality, having been born in America and all the perks that came with being a blue passport holder, and then against his family’s wishes, going to university in Seoul with a focus on Art History. Junmyeon Kim had the face, manners, and proficiency in the language of any red blooded Korean and if he could snake past questions about where he served, he was treated as such. Jongdae could respect anyone who finessed the system, and Junmyeon being stupidly handsome helped wanting to be around him.

Then the after effects of the recession hit, Jongdae’s parents’ incessant screaming matches to study in something practical while he tried, to no avail, explain that the entertainment industry was where the money was at, the next Hallyu wave; finally he had settled on Marketing and Management, working as a production assistant when he could. It was terrible pay, but a steady stream of income, and proximity to what he loved. It was just a shit enough compromise that neither party was happy, so the other could live with it. Junmyeon’s tradeoff was far less dramatic, he shifted to a BBA degree keeping the art history minor. Still, everyone knew it was expected of him to return to America and take over his father’s business, no matter how much he loved taking Jongdae to museums and talking his ear off about Impressionism and Post Impressionism and Van Gogh.

Still, no matter how diametrically opposed, they worked. There was something quintessentially Korean in having to choose your parents’ dream over yours, no matter if you were born in Siheung or Santa Cruz, California. They fit in their opposites so well at the time, it had only made sense to sign a long term lease — a perceived permanence while their futures hung in imbalance. They didn’t make it out unscathed.

It’s been a very long time since they were those starry eyed kids. This has been a long time coming.

Junmyeon shifts his weight to lean over to Jongdae’s arm, heat emanating. The paint is cool, his skin breaking out in goosebumps — he specifically asked the store whether non toxic paint was safe for body paint, and then going back to ask whether the toxic paint was better in colour, in case Junmyeon would prefer that.

Junmyeon’s face scrunches up when he’s focusing like this, one hand holding Jongdae bicep while the other maneuvers a thinner brush over the initial broad strokes covering his arm, in more intricate details. His hair fell over his face, over his eyes. Jongdae tries to commit it to memory, tries to remember every single moment. He’s promised himself he won’t allow himself to miss Junmyeon while he’s still here, close enough to hold. He will not mourn what he has in these final moments, cherish it instead. He raises his free hand to brush the hair away but Junmyeon says, eyes still trained on his arm, “No touching. Don’t move.”

Jongdae stills, his hand falling by his side. He focuses on his breathing instead, steady breaths. He doesn’t mind Junmyeon’s brevity, no incessant polite ice breakers like in college when he wanted to increase morale in all the clubs he was in. Junmyeon is good at knowing people who know people, which comes from putting yourself out there. Given his current exhibitionism, it comes as a surprise to no one, and least of all Jongdae. He knows all about Junmyeon’s world domination plans.

But this Junmyeon, calm and focused, is not known by many. It reminds Jongdae of the time he wasted 23 eggs in his efforts to bake a cake for 6 hours. It looked amazing, and Jongdae said as much when he came home, with perfectly piped frosting and even lined with unlit candles.

“Don’t eat it. It’s poison.” Junmyeon muttered darkly, as he drizzled chocolate syrup on the side to create an overflowing effect. Only Junmyeon would spend that much effort making buttercream frosting from scratch to decorate an inedible cake. Jongdae was charmed. And those eggs weren’t bought with his card. Junmyeon had other ways to make up for his birthday present.

“I should’ve started with a neutral base.” Junmyeon frowns, staring at Jongdae’s arm. From where he’s lying down, he can’t see much without craning his neck, but it seems fine, he thinks? Jongdae has no idea, he had always been a little distracted by the face that tried to explain the subtleties of Matisse.

Jongdae wonders how long it has been since Junmyeon last painted. He doesn’t ask, of course. The dreams of they had as boys have long been trampled by practicality and woes of living under capitalism. Jongdae himself now only sings at karaoke, after a few drinks. Can barely hold a note like he used to. He wonders what it meant that Junmyeon hadn’t said anything when he saw the paints he bought, only a slight nod. What it means that he’s doing it _today._ And whether he’s desperately searching for meaning for where there isn’t any.

“Why do you think we didn’t work out?” Junmyeon asks conversationally. His tone is too light, too smooth to not have been rehearsed, and sprung on Jongdae precisely when he is literally pinned under Junmyeon, can’t run away. That conniving little — “We’re too good at staying friends, hyung.” People have always praised Jongdae for being honest.

The real answer is a lot more messy, complicated. Their histories are too entangled, impossible to extract one without bruising the other. And Jongdae had to relearn knowing Junmyeon again, as his friend, grocery shopping, roommate, favourite. Learned how to get of the taste of ash in his mouth after seeing Sehun’s hand linger on his waist a touch too long, learned how to comfort him when they inevitably broke up, learned to not search for anything in Junmyeon’s eyes when he walked in on him and Jieun on the couch. His room stopped feeling too big, Junmyeon still dragged him to cafes with one monocolor wall to take a thousand pictures of him with, and they fell back into how they started as: friends.

Junmyeon nods, accepting that. He moves on to Jongdae’s chest and his treacherous heart beats arrhythmically, as if trying to jump out of his skin. He’s almost sure Junmyeon can feel it. He’s been good, he’s had these feelings under control for so long now, and now Junmyeon has packed his whole life into boxes, leaving Jongdae with the traces of his after images. He inhales, holds it for four seconds, and releases for seven, ignoring the prickling at the corner of his eyes. Junmyeon is right here, close enough to touch.

“You alright? We can stop if you want.” Junmyeon asks, concerned, brows furrowed and Jongdae hates that more. This is — no, he’s supposed to be — this is _for_ Junmyeon. Get it together, he tells himself sternly, trying to remember his first military instructor’s voice and drills.

Jongdae shakes his head, “I’m fine, I’m just thinking how jealous Baekhyun’s gonna be that he missed this.” Jongdae grins, hiding the lump in his chest to undercut the tension. “You on top of me, just like the good old days. He’d have a field day.” Baekhyun was probably more heartbroken about their break up than they were, and he was convinced they were meant to be together, very unsubtly emailing articles about why you _should_ text your ex, and how soulmates always find each other.

“Really? I remember it the other way around.” Junmyeon muses, finally starting from belly up.

“Yeah, only cause you made me do all the work.” Jongdae’s voice hitches for half a second, all those years of vocal training wasted as Junmyeon strokes a dry brush against his abdomen, as if visualising how he wants it to look. It doesn’t help at all, blood rushing south, Junmyeon quirking an eyebrow at him almost knowingly. This is hell, this is his personal Hell, this is Botticelli’s Divine Comedy, they are Dante and Virgil entertained in eternal combat. Some deep unexplored recess of his brain remembers everything Junmyeon’s ever told him, how his face lit up, how he’d blink in surprise whenever Jongdae would ask a relevant question like he didn’t think he’d actually want to know, how his face went pink the first time they kissed.

He didn’t say anything, went back to work, engrossed. Jongdae tried to explain to his lungs that this is catharsis for them both. Unfortunately, his lungs are in cahoots with his heart, and refuse to listen. Jongdae in this silence ponders all the secrets he carries, all the memories he’s no longer allowed to think of; like how gorgeous Junmyeon looks when he comes undone, everything wonderful and ugly about him, like his need for control and wanting things to go his way, his ambition as a double edged sword. He knows Junmyeon knows him just as well. Telling someone all your secrets is like handing them a knife, and waiting for them to strike with words, leave you for dead. They don’t, and that’s love.

“Are you sure you don’t want the moving company’s number?” Junmyeon asks, pulling Jongdae from his thoughts.

He almost shrugs before remembering the paint is still wet. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I think it’s a nice gesture for which miserable souls rent this place out next.” Jongdae tries for his most winning smile. A fully furnished apartment is certainly a generous gesture, and a pretty costly one for Jongdae new studio. Junmyeon still frowns.

“Plus, Minseok hyung said a man’s decor says a lot about him.” Jongdae tries, edges of his lips curling.

“What does ours say?”

“That I let you have too much control picking out the furniture.” Jongdae forces out a laugh, voice casual. “Just wait til I get started on my place, hyung. No more minimalism crap. I don’t want my chairs to say _anything.”_ The truth is more obvious. Jongdae has no wish to carry the bare bones of his and Junmyeon’s life, let it haunt a new beginning. Let their youth be preserved or thrown to the curb, but it’s not _his_ anymore.

Junmyeon lets it go. “When did you start getting funny?” He tuts, already up to his collarbone.

“Someone’s gotta be.” Jongdae looks at Junmyeon, admiring his work. He realises it’s finished. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful.” He says, looking at Jongdae directly.

“What is it?” Jongdae asks, quiet.

“It’s how you see me. Or rather, how I see myself through your eyes.” Junmyeon waves his hand, something he does when he’s shy. A rarity for someone so confident and besotted by himself.

Jongdae chokes. “A self portrait.” Junmyeon nods. He forces himself to continue, “You have to sign it. It’s yours.”

Junmyeon’s eyes go wide at that. “I—where would I even—“

“Neck.” Jongdae arches his to show.

Junmyeon nods, exhaling shakily, looking around for black paint. Discarding his brushes, he dumps it on his palm then rubs his hands together until the palms of both are covered. Shifting closer, Jongdae closes his eyes. Feels Junmyeon’s hand close around his neck, gentle but firm, pressing his fingers on either side. His hands aren’t too warm, and the paint is still cold, but Jongdae skin _burns._ He’s wrecked, he’s ruined, he knows he’ll feel it on his skin long, long after the paint has been washed off into the drains. Junmyeon just takes, and he takes and Jongdae lets him. God shitfucking hell. He lets go of the self control that kept him completely still, and leans into the touch, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, aware how fast his pulse is, how he feels held. Junmyeon whispers something against his neck. He knows. 

Jongdae keeps his eyes closed when Junmyeon lets go, gets off him to go wash his hands. He feels blood rushing in his legs where it had gone static. Feels the paint dry, a rough crackling stickiness. He doesn’t reach for his phone.

“Not gonna drag me by the window and take softcore pictures?” Jongdae calls out when he hears Junmyeon entering.

He opens his eyes to see Junmyeon in a different shirt than the one that was dangling off him. He winces, apologetic. “No time. Have to be at the airport by 9, and you know Incheon traffic.” Jongdae does know Incheon traffic.

“We really don’t have time, do we?” Jongdae breathes, voice surprisingly steady.

“Jongdae.” A plea.

“Junmyeon.” He looks at Junmyeon, fully dressed, proper, dejected, tired. Maybe he sees him clearly for the first time.

That night, with too much alcohol coursing through both their veins and reminiscing which can always be a little dangerous, Junmyeon had pleaded, _“ask me to stay.”_ Because Jongdae loves him, he won’t.

  
  


Kim Junmyeon walks through airport security just fine, with two hours to spare. It doesn’t show up on airport x-rays, after all. Covered by his shirt and large overcoat, dressed appropriately for a 16 hour flight, there is a blue handprint clasped around his wrist, a plea to stay, a request to leave.

* * *

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> junmyeon is shirtless for homoerotic aesthetic reasons only


End file.
